


Right-hand man

by Entomancy



Series: The End [6]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Dismemberment, Gen, Gore, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entomancy/pseuds/Entomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Origins of Lalnable in Endverse. Warnings apply for quite a bit of gore.</p><p>(Note - this refers to events of Endergame chapter: 'Dammned if you do', hence the truly horrible pun of a title. It is concurrent to the later chapters of Endergame, but not part of the same direct storyline)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right-hand man

The little copse of trees was particularly unremarkable. Perched atop a low hillock, the cluster of beech was like a final arboreal punctuation-mark to the more substantial forest that rolled out to the north. Small birds shuffled in the white branches, settling down as the first shades of dusk began to colour the skyline, and the faint sounds of days’-end preparations filtered up through the leaves from the small testificate village, nestled nearby against the full forest’s edge.

There was no warning.

Within the trees, where the falling shadows were deepest, something _shifted_. A twist in the air, a stretching-shudder that warped light oddly around it, and pulsed – just once – on the other side of sound, sending the surprised birds spiralling up into the dusk with a chorus of avian alarm. The moment wavered, caught, wavered again, and then it was depth and distance and _pressure_ , all at once; a blur of confusing physics that had no place in that unremarkable little grove, that peaked sharply – and broke. Something landed on the leaf-strewn grass below, as the air above it folded uneasily back into its more usual set of dimensions.

It was an arm; or most of one. Severed badly, missing the tip of its middle finger and ragged at the elbow, still oozing scarlet blood pumped on by the echo of a lost heartbeat. The fingers twitched spasmodically as nerves died, and at first the thickened shadow beneath it might have been mistakable for just a trick of the evening light. But then it began to move.

Darkness ran outwards, liquid against the leaves and the tattered pale coat above, and started to flow _up_ the arm, swinging threads of inky blackness against the flesh, smoking and hissing where they touched. Beads of it stretched out like knots on thread, dragging and racing along the edges of opened wounds until they sank greedily into the bloody mess of the cut-point, and the arm _twitched_.

Twitched.

Twitched, as the fingers curled suddenly tight and the rest of the inkstain-darkness rose up around the elbow, bubbling over the torn flesh like a cap of fresh tar. It held, almost hesitant, then began to flow outwards again, dragging itself along in an open shell of shadow which moved across empty air, following unseen edges. It left droplets behind that flattened and thinned, fusing across the developing shape below. The arm first; then a shoulder; then the curve of neck and spine and the darkness was thinner, _thinner_ with each moment, breaking and flowing at the joints as it moved, outlining the hollow where a body might have been.

Colour bloomed, a sickly-shimmer that started at the solid limb and spread out up the half-formed figure. It was never still, and not complete, but where it passed there was detail, like reflection in a molten mirror. White fabric, dark gloves, pale skin – twists of blond, as the patches of pattern rolled over the back of the figure’s head, chasing the forming edge even as the thin shields of shadow merged together at the front. For a moment there was a face, wild eyed, and the outline-figure lurched violently; a wracking spasm that hunched it up onto the shell of its knees, as the head arched back and it _screamed_.

The birds had already fled; the insects in the leaf litter had skittered away from the writhing form like a determined, chitinous tide - and it was possible then that this would go no further; that the dark shape would have failed at dawn, evaporating under the unforgiving gold of sunlight. But the displaced flock had drawn other attention, cursed with the curiosity that came with intellect, and there was already another figure climbing the slope. A testificate, hooded and masked in the way of those here, and clad in the soft leathers of a hunter. They were no fool, and a notched arrow was held ready as they crept forwards, listening carefully. The scream had given them pause – because the sound was _wrong_ , all broken edges and fragments of echo – but the shape was visible now, shuddering strangely, and their steps faltered, catching an unintended twig beneath one heel.

The figure turned at the sound, too fast, too fluid, and met the hunter’s eyes with a stare that ran down its head like melting wax. The arrow loosed, reflex-fast, ahead even of the sharp curse that broke the hunter’s lips; and the steel tip hit heart-on, bursting apart the soap-bubble torso at both sides, and the hunter drew another even as they made to run.

Not fast enough. The malformed figure lunged, covering the space between them with improbable speed. It snatched out with its one hand, and other fingers that were little more than liquid whips at the edges. The hunter went down, horror rather than weight taking their balance, and for a strangled moment there was a new scream in the air - but the sound cut out quickly, replaced with the grisly _snap_ - _crack_ of tearing flesh.

A visceral hush descended over the clearing, broken only by the faint drip of arterial-spray from splattered leaves, and an ongoing guttural slurp, rising and falling and somehow _textured_ , as the torn-open body diminished rapidly, and the dark figure solidified in its place. With each moment it became less an outline, less a reflection of detail, as stolen flesh warped to new patterns, molten and twisted through with black veins that dragged splinters of bone into alignment, sewed fresh features out of torn skin, and the reflections became more real, more fixed, more _familiar_ , until – 

The man lurched up and immediately slumped back onto a nearby tree. Bark discoloured where he touched it, where fingers whole now – with scarring and shadows already sinking back into the redeveloped flesh – dug into the wood, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was naked and gore-stained and his eyes were wide, black-bloody around their manic grey, with a coil of something terrible gleaming in their depths.

He stared at the smears of cloth and slaughterhouse-shadows that lay in emptied outline now against the stained grass, and twisted his head from side to side, jaw lolling open to drool a mix of blood and viscous darkness down his heaving chest. His nostrils flared, taking a sudden, rattle-rasp breath that burst back out again almost instantly in raw coughs, spitting more fluid. He looked down at the remnants again, then raised his first hand – the hand that even now was a little bit paler, where the finest lacework of greyish scars knitted it into the rest of him - and stared.

He remembered...

Memory, memory _like this_ , was new and yet familiar and so very, very strange. Blood hissed in his ears, the too-thick air pressed wet in his lungs and there was _smell_ everywhere; the bright-hot world half-choked out with scents and full of sound from too many sources. But nothing burned. Not the fading edge of sky-light, not the slick of blood that overlay him like a shroud; not the thin sheen of sweat that had sprung unbidden from his new skin. He flexed his hands, both of them, and felt muscles twitch into life under his command. There were… gaps, places where he wasn’t quite finished yet, but that could be dealt with.

He was very nearly complete.

There were lights at the bottom of the hill now. The glint of torches in the darkness, possibly drawn by the din of earlier. It really didn’t matter _why_ , of course.

The man reached up and wiped the back of his origin-hand across his face, smearing even more macabre highlights across his chin and the small crop of stubble that crowned there, as he listened to the echoes in his borrowed blood.

 _Yess_.

He threw back his head and this time it was _laughter_ that boiled free as he began to stagger forwards, lurching and stumbling but getting more confident with each step.

There were voices now, just ahead of him, and the faint sound of drawing weapons, but he barely noticed anything beyond the smell; blood and the salt-sweet edge of fear, wonderful in his new senses.

They smelled _delicious_.

\---


End file.
